Goatly Goings On Page 3

  Chapter 6

  Headless Grannies Blowing In The Wind

  “The long distance phone bill will bankrupt us,” Quentin moaned to Deirdre as he overheard Tassia chatting to Masha in Greece. Grabbing the phone from Tassia’s hand he rudely disconnected her mid-sentence, chiding “Hurry up and finish packing or we will be late for the Potato Museum.”

  Fotini grabbed hold of his cardigan as she scuttled by, dragging him outdoors where she demanded, “What are you goin’ to do about this K-Went-In?”

  Quentin was confronted with a washing line full of hideous old lady dresses frozen solid as boards, the sleeves extended full width and attached to the line with iced-over pegs. He could hear the dresses creaking ominously as they flapped to and fro in the wind, giving the ghoulish appearance of a row of headless grannies. “I’ll get Deirdre’s crème brulee blow torch,” he offered.

  Rushing indoors Quentin discovered Nitsa making indecent suggestions to Fotis on a long distance phone call, with no thought to the cost. Incensed he wrestled the phone from her grasp, telling her “you should be ashamed of yourself, what if baby Andromeda had been listening?” In a threatening voice he handed Nitsa the blow torch, saying, “If you ever want to wear your hideous old lady dresses again you need to help Fotini defrost them from the washing line.”

  Mr and Mrs Jones were glued to their window, engrossed by the antics in the neighbouring garden as they watched Nitsa accidentally set fire to the washing line with the blow torch. “Do you suppose she did time for arson?” Mrs Jones shuddered, hurriedly dialling the fire brigade in panic.

  “Did you seriously think the old hag could be trusted with a blowtorch?” Deirdre screeched as Quentin rushed outdoors, grabbed the icy hosepipe and turned the full force of freezing water on the now raging flames. Dousing the fire Quentin inwardly smiled as Fotini and Nitsa felt the full force of the icy water. “Yous gormless twit, yous ‘ave ruined my onesie,” Nitsa accused through chattering teeth.

  “Well that’s gratitude for you,” Quentin retorted. “I have just saved your life. Didn’t you notice your floppy bunny ears were on fire? Now hurry up and change out of those wet clothes and finish your packing or we will be late for the Potato Museum.”

  Quentin staggered back inside; struggling under the weight of the pile of still frozen, but now charred round the edges, hideous old lady dresses. Feeling a tad guilty in case the old crones’ unexpected icy outdoor showers resulted in pneumonia, Quentin helped Nitsa to stash the rescued dresses into suitcases. As the dresses were still frozen solid it proved impossible to fold the sleeves so they ended up flapping outside the cases like dislocated limbs.

  Meanwhile Fotini took advantage of Quentin’s absence to place a long distance phone call to Prosperous Pedros, reminding him to be at the airport to meet them that night.

  “But mother you won’t land until tomorrow,” Pedros protested down the long distance line.

  “Aye, but Fotis says yous ‘ave to consider the time difference,” Fotini insisted.

  Catching Fotini making a long distance phone call enraged Quentin so much he brutally yanked the telephone cord from the socket.

  “Yous ‘ave done it now, ‘ows yous going to order our taxis?” Fotini admonished, brandishing the severed wires.

  “Dont’s worry Fotini, we can cadge a ride with those ‘andsome ‘unks from the fire department,” Nitsa exclaimed, loosening the top button of her hideous old lady dress and practically sprinting towards the uniformed heroes of the local fire department who had just pulled up in the garden.

  Quentin cringed at the sight of the fire engine; the fire was under control and he hated to waste valuable resources and didn’t fancy a public dressing down from the brigade captain. “Who called the fire brigade?” he demanded “there was no need as I had my trusty hosepipe.”

  Suspecting Nitsa was the guilty party due to her weakness for men in uniform he shot her a withering look. “Dont’s look at me K-Went-In, I was the one on fire,” she reminded him.

  The brigade captain was wondering who to charge with wasting fire service time when the familiar form of ‘call me Mel’ Melecretes climbed down from the engine. Twirling his moustache he cried in delight “it’s my possibly long lost family from Greece.”

  Noticing the charred edges of the hideous old lady dress Nitsa had changed into he gushed “I ‘opes yous weren’t ‘urt Nitsa, let me call an ambulance to check yous over. An’ Fotini yous lovely dress is all burnt round the edges.”

  “What are you doing here Mel?” Quentin asked.

  “I am a volunteer fireman,” ‘call me Mel’ proudly responded.

  “Well now you’re ‘ere yous may as well give us a ride to the Potato Museum,” Fat Christos shouted, dragging a hefty pile of suitcases from the house.

  “Delighted to oblige,” ‘call me Mel’ replied, helping them into the fire engine. Andromeda was allowed to ring the engine’s bell as they set off. Two feet down the drive they came to an abrupt halt when Fotini screeched “Ere K-Went-In, yous ‘ave forgot to get the parrot.”

  Quentin’s brow was furrowed in anger when he climbed back on board the fire engine clutching the parrot’s cage. Taking his hand Deirdre whispered, “Calm down, dear. Only one more day to put up with this lot and then we can enjoy our privacy in the ‘Lemoni Spiti.”

  “A fat chance of that with Fotini living next door,” Quentin sighed, before suddenly cheering up and suggesting “perhaps we should acquire a goat, it would keep the old crone at bay as she lives in mortal terror of them.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Deirdre chastised him. “The filthy creature would leave foul droppings everywhere and eat the contents of the washing line.”

  “Fotini or the goat?” Quentin quipped.

  Chapter 7

  We Grow ‘Em Big In Idaho

  ‘Call me Mel’ was persuaded to park the fire engine at the Museum of Clean whilst Fat Christos ran inside to bulk buy giant stuffed microbes. He considered cuddly germs could be a runaway bestseller back home in his Astakos supermarket and did a mad trolley dash to stock up on stuffed salmonella, E.coli, cholera, flu and measles. Unable to say no to his baby daughter he finally gave in to her demands for a cuddly syphilis toy in neon pink nylon.

  ‘Call me Mel’ persuaded his fellow firemen to pose for a few selfies with Fotini and Nitsa draped over the giant potato sculpture outside the Idaho Potato Museum. The brigade captain put an abrupt end to the photo session when Nitsa goosed his bottom. The fire engine drove away with ‘call me Mel’ barely holding back his tears of emotion at parting from his new Greek friends and overcome with nostalgia for his homeland.

  Walking round the museum Fotini ranted, “Back ‘ome we ‘ave the Acropolis and the Parthenon, but the best K-Went-In can come up with in ‘is country is a shrine to malaka potatoes.”

  Deirdre sniffed “there are plenty of places in Greece celebrating the production of olive oil, this is the American equivalent.”

  “Po po, yous is comparing olive oil to potatoes,” Fotini sneered derisively.

  Tassia shushed the old crone. She was quite intrigued by the educational lecture on the history of irrigating potatoes and reminded Fotini, “We still have the animated talking potato exhibit to enjoy.”

  Quentin suggested the group have lunch at the Potato Museum cafe and then hit the gift shop before heading to the airport. The mention of food animated Fotini far more than the animated talking potato, but she soon complained again when she realised potatoes were the only thing on the menu.

  “You could hardly have expected they would serve up Greek gyros in a museum dedicated to potatoes,” Hattie chided, persuading Fotini to order a potato cupcake served with potato ice cream to satiate her voraciously sweet tooth. Quentin sulked at his guests’ dismissive attitude whilst he quietly fed the parrot through the bars of its cage with kernels of sweet corn from his baked spud topping. He threatened Fotini with the sharp prongs of his fork when she tried to let the parrot out of its cage
, wishing he’d had the foresight to drug it.

  “It will soon be flying in the plane,” he attempted to persuade Fotini.

  “It’s not natural keeping it caged up, it likes to spread its wings” Fotini countered.

  “The airline policy is very strict, it must remain caged,” Quentin insisted.

  The argument ended when Nitsa returned from the gift shop bearing a potato adorned shower curtain. “Look what I found for Bald Yannis, he’ll love this,” she said.

  Quentin snatched it from her hands, throwing it over the parrot cage and saying “it will help the creature to settle down.”

  The gift shop offered the perfect shopping experience for last minute presents. Nitsa bought matching his and her ‘Hot Potato’ tee-shirts for herself and Fotis, and Fotini treated herself to a unique Idaho potato peeler. Deirdre picked up a potato shaped cookbook entitled ‘Tasty Taters’ as a thank you gift for Stavroula who had been keeping an eye on their chickens in their absence. She also snatched up a ‘We Grow ‘Em Big In Idaho’ mug, exclaiming “this will be perfect for Achilles the borrowed builder, he’s always so clumsy with my best china.”

  Fat Christos hoped his purchase of an Idaho ‘spuddy buddy beanie’, the mascot of the Idaho Potato Commission, would tempt baby Andromeda to hand over her inappropriate stuffed germ toy, but she hurled the beanie at the parrot’s cage, wailing “Andy wants cuddly sipp-ly.”

  Tassia attempted to calm the baby down by dangling a shiny antique silver potato masher necklace in front of her face, saying “you can give this lovely present to Nona.”

  “I think Masha will like this too,” Fat Christos said, waving a tee-shirt emblazoned with the slogan ‘You Say Potato, I Say Vodka.’

  Despite Quentin’s firm instructions the parrot must remain in its cage, Fotini could not resist opening the door, proclaiming “it’s just not natural keeping it caged up.”

  Snatching the tee-shirt out of Fat Christos’ hand with its beak, the parrot flapped wildly round the gift shop, scattering a tall display of Idaho Spud Bars at Fotini’s feet and sending the shop assistant, who suffered from advanced ornithophobia, into a hysterical meltdown. Hyperventilating, she cowered in terror under a display of tee-shirts and pressed the panic button linked to the local police station.

  Perching in the gift shop rafters the parrot had a bird’s eye view of passing tourists it could turn into potential victims. Ignoring Quentin’s efforts to coax it down it spotted its prey in an unsuspecting elderly gent hobbling slowly around on a pair of crutches. The parrot clamped itself to his head, causing him to lose his balance. Hitting out with one crutch he knocked over a woman who was engrossed in the recipes in one of the potato cookbooks. The woman fell forward into the cook book display, sending weighty potato tomes toppling to the floor. Having lost his balance the crutched man fell on top of the woman, causing Fotini to cry out “there is perverts everywhere,” as she made a grab for the parrot still clinging to the now prostrate man’s head. Her clumsy attempt to free it resulted in the man’s toupee being yanked clean from his head. Nitsa surreptitiously stuffed the fake hair rug down the front of her hideous old lady dress, muttering “I’ll take this ‘ome for Bald Yannis, he always did look better with a full ‘ead of ‘air.”

  As the others rushed to help up the two victims of the parrot’s antics the bird was busily pecking up Idaho Spud Bars and depositing the spoils in Fotini’s enormous handbag.

  Two police cars screeched to a halt outside. Uniformed officers rushed in shouting “Everyone stay calm, which way did the intruder go?”

  “It’s there in plain sight, stealing Idaho Spud Bars,” the traumatised shop assistant cried out, pointing at the parrot.

  “Dont’s shoot it,” Nitsa screamed, throwing herself on one of the police men.

  “Oh no, not you again,” he responded in horror, thinking he had seen the last of this mad old bag after arresting her for causing a disturbance of the peace when she spat all over the bride at a wedding. “What have you done this time?”

  “It is all a misunderstanding officer,” Quentin butted in. “Nitsa just wants to help Fotini get the parrot back into its cage so we can all make our way quietly to the airport. We don’t want to miss our flight to Greece.”

  “If you promise she will get on the first plane out of here and never set foot in this town again we will personally escort her to the airport,” the police man promised after conferring with his colleagues.

  “Yous ‘ad better ‘andcuff me to yous ‘andsome body to be on the safe side,” Nitsa simpered, holding her wrists out. The policeman recoiled in disgust before turning his attention to capturing the thieving parrot. Fotini, Nitsa and the parrot were finally bundled into a police car and driven to the airport with sirens blaring.

  The rest of the party finished their gift shopping in peace whilst waiting for a taxi to arrive, only disturbed by the frantic cries of the now bruised and toupee-less pensioner wailing “it has to be here somewhere, I hate being bald.”

  Chapter 8

  Left On The Shelf

  Throwing a handful of oregano into a bubbling pan of simmering rabbits, Stavroula demanded of her old fool of a father, “Who was that on the telephone?”

  “It was only that malaka pervert ‘eavy breather again,” that old fool Vasilis replied. “’Appen you ‘ave a secret admirer, Stavroula. After all yous is still an attractive woman.”

  Stavroula preened momentarily at the compliment, before grimacing at the thought the best she could attract was an anonymous nuisance caller with a penchant for panting down telephone lines and no doubt wearing a grubby raincoat. She could not dispel the nagging doubt that the constant anonymous phone calls to the taverna were from an admirer of her live-in-lover Slick Socrates and she was determined to have it out with him again later. Whilst she had been wrong to accuse him of infidelity with Tassia, it was his colourful past that had landed him with the reputation of a bit of a ladies’ man. If he was ever to live up to his reputation again she would gladly add his cheating carcass to the pan of boiled bunnies.

  Stavroula was savvy in suspecting Slick Socrates was indeed the intended recipient of the frequent phone calls to the taverna, but he was oblivious to the existence of his obsessive secret admirer and had done nothing to encourage her.

  In the high mountain village of Osta the heavy breather slammed the phone down in frustration. Once again the object of her current obsession had failed to answer her call. Ever since her sister Soula had bagged a husband, Koula had been eaten with jealousy, convinced as the eldest she should have been the chosen bride. Instead she had suffered the humiliation of being left on the shelf whilst short, plain, lame Soula had been whisked off to a glamorous new life, leaving Koula stuck in the dismal remote farmhouse with her tyrannical father and her two younger sisters, Voula and Toula.

  With her father’s arrest for the murder of his sister for her unmarried woman’s pension, following the discovery of a body in the deep freeze, Koula was experiencing a new found freedom. Along with her two remaining spinster sisters she was giddy with delight over her father’s incarceration and fervently hoped it would be a long one. Free from the yolk of her father’s demands Koula spent her days dreaming up ways to entrap a husband and embroidering bottom drawer items for her dowry. The manic glint in her eyes put off even the most scurvy old-timers who were the only men available to pursue in the village. Unfortunately they went out of their way to avoid any alarming encounters with ‘crazy Koula’ who reeked of desperation.

  Koula was incensed when her interfering sister Soula persuaded her husband Bald Yannis to send a slick lawyer to the village to represent their father. She was happy for him to rot behind bars as his troublesome reputation was a deterrent to any potential suitors. However when Slick Socrates arrived in Osta, Koula was immediately smitten with the side-burned lawyer, and concentrated all her efforts on ensnaring him. Her father had banned all his daughters from wearing makeup so Koula resorted to rubbing black boot polish
onto her eyelashes and dunking her dreary lank locks into olive oil in a futile attempt to make them shiny.

  Slick Socrates failed to notice the greasy haired woman with a manic glint in her boot polish smudged eyes because his attention was focused on avoiding any unnecessary stimuli which might increase the pain in his nether regions caused by his recent vasectomy. When Koula discovered Slick Socrates was technically an unmarried man because he hadn’t yet tied the knot with Stavroula, she decided to pull out all the stops to turn him into her husband. When she wasn’t following him around the village she spent her time embroidering the scales of justice onto hand sewn traditional cotton curtains and pillow cases, in the hope her needlework would impress him.

  Koula was distraught when Slick Socrates returned to Astakos still unaware of her existence. She bombarded the taverna with phone calls, hoping to hear the husky tones of the man she was determined would be her future husband. Even on the rare occasion when Socrates answered she could do no more than breathe heavily down the line in tongue-tied awe. Horrified at the prospect of his lawyerly endeavours actually freeing her father from prison before she could claim her man, she worked herself into a frenzy. This latest hang-up was the final straw.

  Desperate to be close enough to Socrates to snag her prize she seized an opportune moment to hide herself in the back of a truck full of Soula’s dowry goats being transported to the coast, to be dressed up in clothes and sponsored by Japanese goat fanatics.

  Arriving in Astakos covered in goat droppings, Koula did not want her sister Soula to know she was chasing after a man who lived in her new village. Seeking a discreet place to stay whilst she spied on Socrates’ every movement she settled on the empty Lemoni Spiti and moved in to squat with her embroidery.